


All Good Things (The Just In Time Remix)

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, F/F, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene knows better than almost anyone that the future is never set in stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Things (The Just In Time Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unveiled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cry Thief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/348327) by [unveiled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/pseuds/unveiled). 



> With thanks to [**unforgotten**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unforgotten) for her help and encouragement!
> 
> Thanks to vei, as well, for opening up her sandbox for me to play in. I love "Cry Thief," which this fic is remixing—I'd somehow missed it when it was originally posted, but if nothing else, I'm glad I did Remix because it led me to find said fic—and if you haven't read it, you most definitely should! I'm quite sure my fic doesn't do the original justice. <3
> 
> One quick note: I'm making things up about Irene/Destiny and her powers as I go, as I've never read the comics.

Irene knows better than almost anyone that the future is never set in stone—and yet, there are some things that are meant to happen, that will happen regardless of any efforts to prevent them. It's just a matter of timing.

And timing—well, timing is _everything_.

\---

Irene is thirteen when she first has a vision of _her_. It's short, not much more than a flash of her smile, white teeth offset against scaled, dark blue skin, framed by a cloud of bright red hair—but no name, no idea who or where she might be. But it's enough, more than enough to tell Irene that this woman is important—not just to the distant, uncertain future, but to Irene herself. 

From then on, the visions are scattered, infrequent; but there's always that sense of something— _someone_ —just on the horizon, of a woman who is waiting for Irene (for whom Irene is waiting), if Irene will just be patient and let things take their course. 

Here's the thing about seeing the future: you get really, really, _really_ good at waiting. 

\---

Intelligence agencies from all over the world have been scouting Irene since she first manifested, years and years ago when registration was still mandatory. Even her blindness isn't enough to keep her out of the CIA, or MI-5, or the KGB, or whatever else; they're all perfectly happy to stick her in a room so she can be their pet psychic, tell them what missions to take and how they'll end. She's not buying, though; while others might see a chance to do good, to save lives or whatever, she knows what it'll really mean, has seen how it all plays out. 

But one day, when she's just on the edge of twenty, the CIA comes calling again—and before she can say "No, and fuck you very much for asking _again_ ," she has a...premonition, of sorts. 

_("Fifth theft in as many weeks," Irene's supervisor says. "No clear link between what was stolen, but the M.O.'s the same. We think it's a mutant, or a group of mutants, but we can't tell anything more about them, can't even pick out a common face to track from any of the security footage."_

_"No, you wouldn't," Irene murmurs, feeling a flash of recognition, of kinship, the words falling from her mouth before she can censor herself. "She's a shapeshifter."_

_"We need you to tell us her next target."_

_Irene closes her eyes. She can't, she shouldn't, but this is her_ job _—and, to be honest, she knows she won't ever get to meet this mutant otherwise. And suddenly the knowledge is just..._ there _, the woman rifling through the drawers of—_

_"The White House," she says. "She's going to break into the Oval Office, though I can't tell what she'll take."_

_"When?"_

_It almost never works like that, she's told them time and time again it doesn't, but they never seem to learn. But the vision is clear enough that Irene can guess, says, "Within the next two weeks, three at the most."_

_*_

_They get her; of course they get her, Irene's been giving them updated details on the when, the where, the how, even going out into the field to get clearer visions (this is mostly bullshit, but it's a way to get_ out _of her semi-confinement, so Irene uses the excuse whenever she can)._

_And when they're bringing her in, the woman looks up at Irene, and Irene knows the woman's eyes are blazing, even though she says nothing—and Irene knows she feels this...connection, or whatever it is, too._

_*_

_The noises of the prison will never not be discomfiting, the yelling and the beeping and the silences that are louder than anything else. Irene hates being here, but she knew she had to come, felt it deep in her bones. The guards pat her down, scan her walking stick, even scan her glasses, before they let her through, settle her in across from the thief, whose cuffs clink as she shifts, her sigh of exasperation betraying her irritation._

_"Irene Adler," Irene says. She'd offer her hand, but. Well._

_"You know my name; and if you don't, I'm not giving it to you."_

_"Raven Darkholme," Irene says calmly. "Alias Mystique."_ ) 

__In the present, Irene startles. This is the first time she's got any hint of a name, and even if it's a fake name, it's still something more than she'd had. __

_(Irene watches Raven's mouth twist._

_"Sure, that's me," she says. There's the sound of shifting clothing, the clink of the chains again; Raven is crossing her legs. "They say you're the one who caught me," she continues. "I'd say I'm impressed, but..." Irene sees her shrug before she hears it. "Seems you're nothing but a traitor."_

_"You don't know me," Irene replies defensively._

_"I don't," the woman agrees. "And honestly? I don't want to."_

_And Irene knows that's the end of it, that the woman will never say anything more to her, not even in her visions._

_*_

_Five weeks later, Raven tries to escape; she's shot and killed during the attempt. Irene grieves, not really knowing why._ )

Irene looks up at the recruiter, maybe five seconds after being asked—again—and says, "No, thank you. And you can take that card you’re about to hand to me and shove it; I'll never change my mind, and you should pass that on to your superiors."

It doesn't stop them from trying—she already knows nothing will, that she’ll be dealing with this for the rest of her life—but Irene will never again feel the urge to say yes. Meeting Raven (and Irene's still a little giddy about finally, _finally_ having a name to put to the face) isn't worth not having a life with her, isn't worth Raven not living at all. 

She can wait a little longer. 

\---

Irene's waiting in line at the Law School café, tapping her foot impatiently as she runs through all the studying she has to get done in the next ten hours if she intends to pass the Bar. Everyone thinks that seeing the future means she doesn’t have to study, or can study less, but that’s not quite how it works. She can sometimes catch visions of herself taking the test, can see the questions and see _how_ she answers—but that doesn’t necessarily mean her future self’s answers are correct, and she’ll never see enough of the test to know all the questions. 

So, like every other law student who’s finishing up their third year, she’s immersing herself in her books, only emerging for caffeine and occasional meals (and, every now and again, to sleep in her bed). This trip to the café is the first break she’s taken in six hours, and she’s trying to make the most of it before she drags herself back. 

She’s two people away from the front of the line when she hears her. 

“Oh, my God, Charles, I am _twenty-one_ now, I’m a grown-ass woman, you don’t have to keep checking on me all the damn time!” There’s a pause—and Irene sees, now that she’s focusing: a blonde woman on her cell phone, her eyes rolling exasperatedly even as the corners of her lips quirk up fondly. Then the woman continues, softer, but no less irritated: “Yes, I’ve eaten today, yes, it included fruits and vegetables and didn’t come prepackaged, yes, I’ve been going to class, no, I’m not failing anything, yes, I’m sleeping all right, and for _God’s_ sake, please get a new boyfriend, or girlfriend, or both, or even a dog, I cannot handle being the sole focus of all your mothering attention.”

“Next!” the cashier calls, loudly, and Irene startles, realizing that means her; she’d been so caught up in listening to this girl’s voice, for no reason she can discern, that she’d completely missed the two people in front of her placing their orders. She shakes her head at herself as she makes her way to the counter and orders a triple-shot espresso and a doughnut. 

Her drink’s ready almost immediately, but something keeps Irene lingering near the pickup counter until the blonde woman reaches the cashier and orders a venti macchiato, no whip, and adds, “Shut up, Charles, I need caffeine if I’m going to get through that thesis draft you wanted me to look over,” into her phone. When the cashier prompts for her name, she says, distractedly, “Oh, right, it’s Raven.”

Irene stills. 

( _Raven hangs up the phone just as she gets her coffee, saying, “Yeah, yeah, Charles, I love you, too.”_

_Irene, still at the counter, says, “Overprotective brother, I’m guessing.” She’s not guessing._

_“In one,” Raven says, not seeming irritated in the least that a complete stranger was eavesdropping on her—then again, Irene knew she wouldn’t be. “I love him, I do, but ever since his last boyfriend broke up with him because he was spending too much time with his thesis and not enough time with said boyfriend, his mothering has been...unbearable.”_

_“Sounds like you could use someone to rant to,” Irene says, not being subtle in the least._

_Raven laughs, looks Irene up and down, and says, “You know what? That sounds great.”_

_They talk for hours, their discussion rapidly leaving the topic of Raven's-brother-Charles and meandering around to everything else. They’re the last ones in the café, and Irene can’t bring herself to regret the lost studying time. They make a date to meet, and then another one, and then another, and then they’re properly dating, and by the point finals roll around, Irene’s neglected so much of her studying that she knows she’s inches away from a meltdown over how unprepared she is, but everything with Raven is still so new and lovely that she can barely feel any of the panic in which she knows she should be knee-deep._

_She definitely feels it two months later, when she fails the Bar, and even more when Raven breaks up with her a year later, not willing to suffer through a long-distance relationship now that they’re both done with school and headed in different directions. Raven doesn’t mention the thieving, but Irene doesn’t need to be told, has known since before they met. She doesn’t mind, but it won’t be the best thing for a lawyer still establishing her career and credibility to be even potentially linked to an international criminal. It’s for the best, it really is, and they both make vague noises about meeting up in the future, maybe making a go of it when the timing’s right._

_The timing’s never right. Neither of them is surprised._ )

Irene doesn’t hesitate; she walks unerringly to the door, heading back to the library and her books as fast as she can. 

And if her arm brushes against Raven’s on the way, that’s no one’s business but her own. 

\---

Irene passes the Bar with flying colors, and accepts a position at a prominent law firm specializing in mutant law—but which hires few mutants, something she hopes, rather than knows, she can change.

Three years later, then-Representative Erik Lehnsherr, after a meeting in which it was impossible to miss her frustration with the baselines she works with every day, offers her a job. She almost doesn’t take it, but then she feels a certain resonance along the path he offers, and she accepts. 

She’s followed her instincts for too long to ignore them now. 

\---

Irene hates fundraisers with a fiery, burning passion, but Erik insists she come to every one. He says it’s because he wants to have her on-hand to tell him if he’s about to make any huge blunders, or if there are any connections he should pursue, but she knows it’s because he hates going to these things alone and he has yet to figure out a way to make Emma Frost or Azazel do anything they don’t want to do. (Janos always comes, but he always brings someone—which, because Erik is, at heart, a needy child, apparently doesn’t count.)

These things are usually so boring that Irene starts making up futures for everyone, or plotting out elaborate plans of escape (it’s times like these that she almost regrets turning down the CIA for the fiftieth time, but then she remembers that they’d either stick her behind a desk or in a cell, and this is infinitely preferable to either of those options). But this time is different. This time, noted philanthropist and researcher Charles Xavier is here, and Erik is torn between adulating hero-worship, obvious hatred for Xavier’s policies, and wanting to take the man home so they can have sex in every room of his apartment, hopefully multiple times. Irene amuses herself for a while with watching Erik’s future change as he considers each of these possibilities in turn, but after the third time she sees her boss orgasm, she’s had enough. 

“You should go for it,” she murmurs. Erik doesn’t insult either of their intelligence by asking what she means. 

“You think?” he asks, sounding more uncertain than she’s heard him in a while. 

“I know.” It’s a half-truth; this is the only path Erik can take that won’t end disastrously in the near future, but she can’t see what will happen with them in a year, or twelve—has chosen not to look, franky, because while it _is_ her job to keep Erik from committing political suicide, it’s not her job to vet his potential romantic partners to save him from heartbreak.

“Okay,” he says. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, straightening his jacket. “Okay.” He turns to face her and says, “How do I look?”

She gives him a dry look. 

“Right, yes, stupid question,” Erik says, and he’s so bumbling and awkward that it’s almost adorable. 

“You look just fine, you idiot,” she says. “Now go over there and proposition him, before I do it for you.” She grins. “ _That_ , I assure you, would not end well.”

“Going, going,” he says, and for the first time all night, her arm is blissfully free. She makes her way to the bar to celebrate.

Two hours later, she decides to check in on Erik and Charles, just for her own peace of mind, and is utterly unsurprised when she sees them outside, flagging down the nearest taxi. 

She laughs, the vision melting away to show her something else, something further down the line, a possibility just unfurled. 

( _“So,” a familiar voice says. “Are you standing under the mistletoe hoping to be kissed, or did you just pick an unlucky place to stand?”_

_Irene turns to face the speaker, letting herself drink in her first sight of Raven, blue and red and beautiful. She doesn’t say anything; she can’t quite bring herself to speak. She’s been waiting, waiting so long, and to meet Raven here, at Erik’s annual holiday fundraiser, of all places, is a bit...unexpected. To be honest, it’s been a while since she’s had a vision of Raven—though she supposes that ought to have been a sign._

_“Because I have to say,” Raven continues, undeterred by Irene’s silence, “that I hope it_ was _a conscious choice, and that you won’t mind my kissing you, because something tells me I’d really like it if I did.”_

_“Yes,” Irene says, the word leaving her mouth without permission._

_“Yes, it was a conscious choice, or yes, I’d mind kissing you, or yes, I’d like it?”_

_Irene thinks for a second, just for the way she knows Raven will squirm. “The first and the third.”_

_Raven laughs and leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Irene’s lips._

_“I’m Raven,” she says, when she pulls back._

_“Irene.”_

_“Nice to meet you, Irene,” Raven says, a massive understatement if Irene’s ever heard one. She slides her hand into Irene’s, and Irene allows her to link their fingers together and pull her toward one of the more quiet corners of the hall. “So what brings you to Senator Lehnsherr’s party?”_

_“I work for him,” Irene says. “Legal advisor. You?”_

_“My brother is the unfortunate guy dating the Senator,” Raven says, more fond than disdainful, but there’s still an air of distrust around her—understandable, given Charles and Erik’s differing views on just about everything, and the fact that the relationship is still quite new._

_“Ouch,” Irene quips. Raven laughs._

_“I like you, Irene,” she says. “Let me get you a drink?”_

_“They’re all free,” Irene points out, before adding, with a grin, “but I wouldn’t say no to a dirty margarita.”_

_“My kind of girl,” Raven says, and isn’t that the truth._

_They end up going home together, and from there, they fall into a relationship, and it’s easy as breathing, and Irene can’t see how it ends—or, indeed, if it ends at all._ )

Irene smiles to herself. Matchmaking may suit her yet.

\---

A few months later, Erik slams into her office. 

“You were wrong,” he bites out, before she can ask him what he thinks he’s doing, bursting in like that. “I never should have gone for it.”

“I never said anything about what would happen after you went for it,” Irene says calmly, when it becomes clear Erik is waiting for an answer. 

“That is the most— _ugh_!” Erik exclaims, and the metal paperweight on Irene’s desk crumples. “You could have told me, could have warned me—”

“I didn’t know,” Irene says, shuffling some papers distractedly. “I see the future, Erik, but I’m not omniscient. You know that.” She shrugs. “Besides, the ups and downs of your love life hardly seem worth my intervention.” 

“You’re worse than Emma,” he grits out.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Was that all?” 

Erik sighs, putting his business face on. “Kelly called again. I need to know if—”

“The deal’s rotten, don’t go for it. Hold out for someone better.” 

“Some _one_?” Erik demands. 

“You heard what I said,” she replies. “I’ll tell you if that changes.”

“Yeah,” he says, distractedly. He starts to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “I’m still mad at you,” he says, even as he fixes her paperweight.

“I know.”

The door closes behind him, and Irene sighs heavily. 

She’s starting to get tired of waiting.

\---

Four weeks later, Irene finds herself buying a taser without quite knowing why. 

\---

Two months later, Irene is frowning at the papers she’s reading, hoping their complete incomprehensibility is the product of someone being incompetent with a Braille typewriter, when Kitty Pryde ducks her head in.

“I’m heading out,” she announces, as she does every day, as Irene constantly reminds her she doesn’t need to do. “Did you need anything before I left?”

“I’m all set,” Irene says, tilting her head up with a smile. “Have a good weekend.” 

“You, too!” Kitty exclaims, before bouncing out of the office and down the hall. 

Hardly twenty minutes later, though, Kitty is back. Or...Irene frowns. Not Kitty. Someone else. Someone else who is...about to break into Erik’s office. She grabs the taser from her desk, glad for it now, and rushes into the room.

There’s a confrontation, and some banter, and then not-Kitty, in a move Irene could never have predicted and most certainly did not foresee, breaks the window—

And then not-Kitty’s voice is different, familiar, and she’s inviting Irene to coffee, and before Irene can collect her thoughts enough to answer, or use the taser, or _something_ , Raven is gone.

It’s all right. She’ll come back. 

And this time, Irene will be ready.


End file.
